


We don't have time

by jamesraoulsilva



Category: 00silva - Fandom, James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: 00Silva, M/M, tiagoxbond - Freeform, what if
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-21
Updated: 2013-07-21
Packaged: 2017-12-20 21:00:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/891796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamesraoulsilva/pseuds/jamesraoulsilva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Both of them did raise their guns however and Bond blurts out, “get the fuck out of my house.” Silva looks back at him over the barrel of his Steyr M9-A1, which he had been able to hold on to during the explosion. “My, my,” is his gasping response, “you sure hid Mommy well.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	We don't have time

**Author's Note:**

> For extra feels, listen to "Some Kind of Spark" by Editors or at least give the lyrics a quick glance.

The helicopter crashes into the estate, its blades largely flung off by the explosion caused by the dynamite and the chemicals. It goes accompanied by a horrible noise which makes a man cringe and look in horror, unable to do anything. Out of control, the monstrosity spins and spins and takes down at least half of the house down with it.

Silva and his men are thrown back by the impact of the explosion when the dynamite goes off, blowing up, none of them expecting the knock-back. Silva screams wordlessly when the bang reaches his eardrums, throwing his hands against his ears but it’s too late and the agonizingly sharp pain makes him writhe on the cold, damp ground.

When he gets up everything is blurry – out of focus, as he stumbles towards the bright orange spot that used to be a home but had neglected to fulfill that role, becoming nothing more than a pile of rocks, dirt and dust its only residents.

Somehow, a miracle had left the dining room largely intact; the only damage caused by  _M_ ’s exploding light bulbs. The flames were licking at the ceiling and one wall was blown away. Two of Silva’s men, or rather, their bodies, were lying in a corner, maimed by the blast.

In the kitchen, adjacent to the dining room, Bond crawls back into the house from the priest hole, coughing his lungs out. He stumbles into the only direction that isn’t blocked by either the flames or pieces of the building, throwing himself into the dining room when he hears the sinister creaking of the ceiling and it comes crashing down.

After a few seconds he pulls himself together and stands up. Normally, his instincts would scream at him to raise his gun and fire at the shape before him, but he was numbed down and so was his opponent, the former agent.

Both of them _did_ raise their guns however and Bond blurts out, “get the fuck out of my house.” Silva looks back at him over the barrel of his Steyr M9-A1, which he had been able to hold on to during the explosion. “My, my,” is his gasping response, “you sure hid Mommy well.”

Bond tries to get his act together and casually remarks, “you blew up my Aston. I have zero empathy for you now.” Silva counters in kind. “You blew up my helicopter, darling.”

They remain silent, Silva side-stepping his way closer, around one of the tables, until there’s nothing but empty air between the two of them. “Don’t move. Not an inch,” Bond says coldly. Silva laughs, taking big breaths of air, and laughs – like Bond could control him, like anyone could control him besides _her_. He flails his arms a little in a wide gesture – _come here and make me listen to you._

But of course, Bond doesn’t. “Finding it so funny, Mr Silva?” The blond stops, making no sound, and a grim expression settles on his face as he raises his gun back at the 00-agent.

There postures are perfectly similar, right hand raised, left foot turned outwards and behind their center of gravity, leaning on it. Meanwhile their right legs and left arms are loose, relaxed – contraposition, allowing for an easy escape or change of stance. The same detached look in their eyes, one pair bright blue, the other pair dark.

“Why, you don’t?”

“My boyhood home burning down. Hardly a laughing matter.”

“I thought you hated this place,” Silva replies, his voice soft but dangerous. Done with the bullshit, the games are over, they slowly start circling. A beam falls from the ceiling, sending a spray of sparks over Silva’s back, but he’s protected by the thick, heavy leather coat.

The blond’s hair is tousled, hanging in front of his face and some blood had dripped down his face, now clotted, making his hair stick to it, giving him a predatory appearance. The agent’s face is covered in grease and ash, looking disheveled.

“How fitting, then,” Bond retorts, his eyes blazing. Silva is in this his opposite, looking detached, his eyes blank.

“Why don’t you get the fuck out,” 007 smirks devilishly.

“What, after inviting me in?” And oh, Silva plays it so well, all make-believe innocence but for Bond it’s just an affirmation that the man’s act is nothing but exactly that – a fake play. Wonderfully executed, alright, but a mask can only hide someone for so long.

“Didn’t think you’d bring your friends.” Bond points his gun directly, the villain standing close enough for Bond to make a point-blank headshot within a split second if he wanted to. Unfortunately for the agent, there was an _ex_ -agent standing in front of him with just that capacity and, frankly, attitude.

“Well, right now it’s just you and me.” Silva puts his gun off safety, Bond’s end now only one flick of a finger away.

So Bond starts the game again, raising his eyebrow at the gun movement. “You blew up my Aston.”

Silva’s mouth twitches, not wanting to acknowledge the gambit, but of course ending up doing exactly that with his response. “Look at my helicopter.”

The two of them keep on circling around, moving closer to each other and then shying away, making the circle bigger and smaller. “I would say I’m sorry,” Bond quips – “No you wouldn’t,” Silva informs him, sounding tired.

“Neither are you. Going to shoot me?”

“Where is she?”

Huge bright blue pools staring into black, conveying to the darkness the obvious answer that he will not tell. “You’re not getting her.”

Silva clenches his jaw and again demands, “where is she.”

Bond can’t do anything but shake his head. “I won’t let her die.” And then adds, much quieter, “or you.”

Anti-climactic, another piece of the ceiling falls down where the agent stood only moments ago and he jumps away, before quickly adding, “unless I’m made to.”

The darkness betrays absolute sadness, the blond’s heavy-lidded eyes taking in Bond’s movements in front of him. “You made your own choices, no?” he asks after a moment. “What are you going to do now?”

Bond stares at him, contemplating his answer, before he decides to turn the tables and open the attack on the blond _himself_. “Why haven’t you shot me yet.”

“Answer me, Mr Bond.” No more amusement, only deadly seriousness.

“Answer _me_ , Mr Rodriguez.” Bond lowers his gun a little, he can’t wait to see Silva’s reaction and he isn’t disappointed, for the man bares his teeth. Bond leaps at the opening, continuing his attack. “This is my territory. My rules.”

Silva snaps out of it. “I’m not here for you, James.”

“You can’t, can you.” A shadow moves forward, lowers his gun and all Silva sees are those blue eyes, incredibly bright, illuminated by the fire, taking its time in burning away their playing room.

Silva grabs his gun with his left hand as well, keeping it safely between the two of them and he starts blinking fast. Bond steps closer, coming so close he reaches for Silva’s gun with his hand. The blond makes a tiny sound, coming from the back of his throat, as Bond lowers his weapon to the floor.

Again, Silva snaps out of it, jerking his hands to himself and stepping backwards while shaking his head. His hands tremble a little as he raises his gun again and hisses, “and stick a knife in my back?”

“Shoot me then.” The blue-eyed man stares angrily at the blond, taking a step forward. “I don’t want to.” Bond stops moving and tries to process the answer, hiding his confusion with a quick answer. “Guess we cocked this up a bit. Didn’t we.”

Silva answers his stare with his own hardened glare back. His voice is quiet when he says, “just give me her.” He lowers his gun an inch, a badly disguised try at a truce.

“She’s hurt. Leave her be.”

“ _I_ am hurt!” Silva yells. “And she didn’t leave me be!”

The wooden ceiling crackles audibly, the flames eating away at it, in the otherwise deafening silence after that outburst; the only interaction between the men is an exchange of intense stares. Bond breathes in deeply before he discloses, “she was bleeding.”

His hands grip his gun tighter as he looks around the burning building. “We don’t have much time,” Bond tries after he doesn’t get a response from the blond. “I don’t want it like this,” Silva finally murmurs before he lowers his gun a little more, closes his eyes and shakes his head.

“Put the gun down.”

Silva’s eyes fly open. “And then?” he asks incredulously, his eyes focusing on the agent, whose next move takes the blond by surprise.

Bond goes down on his knees slowly, bringing his right hand down and puts his gun on the floor before he raises back up, both arms in the air. “Hmm. We’ll end this right,” Bond grunts. Looking down at him in disbelief, Silva opens his mouth, doesn’t know what to say and closes it again.

“Don’t make me.” The agent is barely audible. “Don’t.”

Silva lowers his gun completely and steps closer, whispering back. “Could you live with not doing it?”

“Not what.” Bond looks pale under the ash and grease.

“Not _killing_ me.”

“Wrong question,” the blue eyes widening at their owner’s words.

“Then let me go,” the dark-eyed man pleads. “Let me finish this.”

Bond shuffles a bit closer, sounding remorseful when he finally answers, “I can’t. You know that. Lost too many people in this house.” Silva’s breath catches. “Then… what. What?”

“You ordered your men to kill me. Guess that’s one option.” And again, Bond feels confident enough to start playing again a little, his tone joking, but his eyes remain serious.

“No. Other option.” A defiant, clear response.

“We could fight each other,” Bond shrugs, “no guns, no knives.”

Silva considers this, then kicks the gun lying at his feet away and flings his own behind him, landing somewhere outside of the house. He shrugs out of his heavy coat and rolls his shoulders, cracks his knuckles. “Alright.”

Bond slowly erects and takes a fighting stance. Not so different from the gun-pointing stance, but with close combat one has to stand on the ball of their feet, granting a quick step, and slightly bent knees, to quickly duck or even roll away.

While their stance was first similar, now it is perfectly mirrored. Silva holds his left hand in front of him, a clenched fist and Bond has only a second to be surprised at that before it comes swinging up at his face. He shoots with his right hand but fights with his left?

The agent evades a couple of blows before lashing out with his right foot, catching the blond in his kidney, making him bend over slightly. Bond grabs his face and starts bringing it down at his raised knee but then realises who he’s up against and tries to reduce the impact of the crash, not wanting to maim the blond further.

Finally it clicks – Tiago Rodriguez must have been left-handed, having it beaten out of him either at school or at MI6 who wouldn’t make exceptions, not then, not now. So maybe he got trained to handle a gun with his right hand, his instincts still told him to fight back with his left, dominant side when suddenly attacked. Distracted, Bond gets hit by one, two, three light punches, making him stumble backwards against the wall of the room. When he is about to lurch forward at the blond with blazing eyes, the ceiling collapses and crashes down between them.

Bond takes the worst of the accident, his position so close to the wall making some debris fall on top of him and he has to go flat down, covering the back of his head with his hands. Quickly enough he is back up on his feet, slightly dazed – _one too many times today_ , he can’t help but think – and looks for the blond, but he is long gone.

The moment Bond steps out onto the damp moorland, he is grabbed by two, three, four of Silva’s henchmen.

The moment Silva steps into the cold chapel, Kincade makes his rentrée from one of the chapel’s doors and the blond raises his gun, which he had collected when he stumbled outside and fires, fast as lightning, his aim a hundred per cent accurate and the bullet grazes the wall next to the old gamekeeper’s head, sending him back into the doorway with raised hands.

“Don’t.”

**

The unspoken words stand written in his eyes: M is dead. Bond sees it as the blond approaches. He has to put his head in his neck to look at him because Silva’s henchmen had forced him on his knees, all of them taking pleasure in giving him hard hits across the face, fierce kicks in his abdomen and nasty twists at his arms, raised impossibly high behind his back. Bond has no time to fathom and process this news—

–the Steyr gun suddenly raised at the men, their employer says with coldness in his voice, “Get. Out.” One of them is slow and a bullet gets buried in his back of his lower leg. He is helped up by one of his friends and they scramble away into the dark.

Bond gets up slowly, putting M’s passing away, locking it away inside his brain for the moment, keeping his heart closed carefully. He tests his legs and they don’t disappoint him. As he walks up to Silva, the blond dispassionately mutters, “it’s done. Over,” before looking at his feet.

“I’ll get you out,” are the agent’s murmured words back, his eyes wide at his own words. His left hand moves towards Silva’s right, carefully wresting the gun out of his grip, throwing it in the flames that aren’t even close to dying out – making sure he doesn’t use the gun on himself - his right hand moving up to Silva’s jaw, carefully stroking it with only his thumb, like they have known each other for years, before he drops his hand.

“Two rats, remember.”

Now it’s Silva’s turn to go quiet and process what’s happening, slowly looking back up at Bond. And he looks so _vulnerable_ to the agent, in his lousy trousers, a loud contrast to the atrocious clothing he wore yest– was that really _yesterday_? – high black boots and dirty, torn black turtle-neck sweater. His earpiece had fallen out of his ear, now dangling on the wire, resting against his chest.

And Bond makes a decision, rash, dangerous and there’s no turning back once he grabs the blond’s arm, tugging him towards the moorland and starts running. He starts by pulling, pushing, tugging, almost dragging him, Silva clearly trying to comprehend what’s happening, but his strides get longer after a while and Bond lets go of his arm.

They run side by side for a while before the agent notices the blond is starting to fall behind. He throws a look over his shoulder and sees the man pressing a hand against his side. Bond turns and stops the man with two hands, Silva crashing into him and Bond quickly steps back, this contact, so suddenly, too close. “There, what’s that?” he murmurs however and pulls the blond’s hand away. He’s bleeding where Bond’s boot had chafed open the skin, the wound getting worse because of the running, the blood seeping out of it disturbingly quickly.

Bond takes of his coat, then his shirt before he puts his coat back on. Suddenly grateful for the long sleeves, he presses the body of the shirt against the wound and wraps the sleeves around Silva’s waist, tying a knot at his other side. Silva looks at him with huge eyes and he looks so _tired_. Bond places his hands on both sides of the blond’s face, his fingers brushing the dirty hair a bit.

“There’s no time,” he says, urging him. “Come on, stay with me.” And he takes Silva’s hand as they start running again, two mirrored shadows disappearing in the hills and grass.


End file.
